The Love of Monsieur. Gibbs George

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СКАЧАТЬ looking into the night, and the lids which her scorn let down to hide her anger concealed but in part the smoldering light of her passion.

      “It is preposterous, monsieur!” she said, chokingly. “I cannot! I will not!”

      “And your promise, madame. Mistress Clerke will forget her promise?”

      She looked about helplessly, as though seeking a way to escape. But Mornay was merciless.

      “Perhaps, madame, you fear!” he said, ironically.

      He had judged her aright. With a look that might have killed had Mornay been made of more tender stuff, she caught her gown upon her arm and swept past him out into the darkness of the terrace beyond.

      The air was warm and fragrant, full of the first sweet freshness of the summer. The light of the moon sifted softly through the haze that had fallen over the gardens and trembled upon each dewy blade and leaf. It was so peaceful and quiet! – so far removed from rancor and hatred! – a night for fondness, gentleness, and all the soft confidences of a tenderness divine and all-excelling – a night for love!

      This thought came to them both at the same moment – to Mistress Barbara with a sense of humiliation and anger, followed by the burst of passion she had struggled so long to control. She stopped in the middle of the garden-walk and turned on him:

      “You!” she cried, immoderately. “You again! Has a lady no rights which a man, whatever he be, is bound to respect? Why do you pursue me? Listen to me, Monsieur Mornay. I hate you! – I hate you! – I hate you!” And then, overcome by the every excess of her emotion, she sank to the bench beside her. Monsieur Mornay stood at a distance and occupied himself with the laces at his sleeves.

      To a Frenchman this was surely an ill-requiting of his delicate attentions.

      “Madame,” he began, calmly, then paused.

      “No, madame does not mean that.” He made no attempt to go nearer, but stood, his hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, his eyes, dark and serious, looking quietly down at her.

      She made no reply, but sat rigidly, her arm upon the back of the bench, the seat of which her skirts had completely covered. There was no indication of the turmoil that raged within her but the tapping of her silken shoe upon the graveled walk.

      “How have I offended, madame?” he continued. “Is it a fault to admire? Is my tribute a sin? Is my service a crime? Have I not the right of any other of your poor prisoners – to do you honor from afar?”

      “From afar?” she asked, coldly satirical.

      Mornay shrugged his shoulders with a pretty gesture.

      “Ma foi, madame. My mind cannot imagine a greater distance between us – ”

      “Monsieur’s imagination is not without limits,” she interrupted; and then, after a pause, “In England a lady is allowed the privilege of choosing her own following.”

      “In France,” he replied, with an inclination of the head – “in France the following confers an honor by choosing the lady.”

      “Yes, in France, monsieur.”

      There was a hidden meaning to her words.

      He thought a moment before replying.

      “But madame is of a house of France. The English Mistress Clerke is also the French Vicomtesse de Bresac.”

      She turned fully towards him and met his gaze steadily.

      “But, thank God! the part of me that is English is the part of me which scorns such attentions as yours. To be the object of such gallantries is to be placed in a class” – she paused to measure out the depth of her scorn – “in a class with your Shrewsburys and Middletons. It is an insult to breathe the air with you alone. My cavaliers are gentlemen, monsieur, and in England – ”

      She broke off abruptly, as if conveying too full an honor by conversing with him; and then, woman-like, “Why did you save the Spanish coach?” she cried, passionately.

      Monsieur Mornay smiled blithely.

      “Madame would not look half so handsome dead as she does alive.” He took a step as though to go nearer, and she rose to her feet, turning towards the house.

      “Come nearer, monsieur, and I – I leave at once.”

      Mornay’s brows contracted dangerously as he said:

      “The hour is mine”; and then, with an angry irony, “You need not fear me, madame. I am no viper or toad that you should loathe me so.”

      She looked defiantly up at him.

      “There are things even less agreeable than toads and vipers.” The words dropped with cold and cruel meaning from her lips. In a moment she would have given her fortune to withdraw them. Monsieur Mornay stepped back a pace and put the back of his hand to his head where a patch still hid the scar upon his temple. He stammered painfully, and lowered his head as though bowing to some power over which he had no control.

      “You – you mean the misfortune of my birth?”

      Mistress Clerke had turned her face away again; she put her hand to her brow, her look steadily averted. Deep down in the heart she so carefully hid, she knew that what she had done was malignant, inhuman. Whatever his sins of birth or education, was he not built in the semblance of a gentleman? And had he not jeopardized his life and good repute in her service? It was true. Whatever his origin, his frank attachment deserved a better return than the shame she had put upon it. If he had not stood there directly before her she would have said something to have taken the bitter sting from her insult. But as she felt his eyes burn into her, she could not frame her words, and her pride made her dumb.

      “Madame has heard that?” he stammered; and then, without waiting for a reply, he said, with a quiet dignity, “It is true, I think. If madame will permit, I will conduct her to the gallery.”

      Mistress Clerke did not move. Her eyes were fixed upon the swinging lanterns at the end of the terrace.

      “Come, madame, I give you back your hour,” he said. “Nick Rawlings and I will take our liberty together. If you will but allow me – ”

      There was a sound of rapid footsteps upon the walk, and three figures came into the glare of the shifting lanterns. In the colored light Mornay could dimly make out Ferrers, Heywood, and Wynne. Heywood peered forward into their faces.

      “Enough of this,” he said, sternly. “Mistress Clerke, be so kind as to give your arm to Captain Ferrers. If you will but take her to the Duchess, Ferrers – ”

      Mistress Clerke had arisen to her feet and looked from her guardian to Monsieur Mornay, who stood at his ease, awaiting their pleasure. She opened her lips as though to speak, but the Frenchman, with an air of finality which could not be mistaken, bowed low, and then, turning coldly away, stood facing the darkness of the garden.

      CHAPTER III

      MONSIEUR MORNAY BECOMES UNPOPULAR

      The footsteps of Mistress Barbara and Captain Ferrers vanished into the night. Sir Henry Heywood moved a step nearer Mornay, and the Frenchman turned. His face shone with an unwonted pallor, and an air of distraction had СКАЧАТЬ